Glenn just shakes his head as if to say, no problem, and inclines his face toward the floor to his left. "Let me show you everything before he comes out. I made a few extra desserts, grabbed you guys a nice bottle of white wine I think will pair well with the citrus notes in the chocolate, and took some candles from the table displays."

He shrugs.

But I grab his arm, squeezing gently as I stare at what he put together. "It's perfect." And it really is. One of the tablecloths is spread across the floor like a picnic blanket, lined with flaming candles. A bottle of wine sits on ice in the center, surrounded by sweet confections I can't wait to pop into my mouth. The only thing missing is Ollie.

"I should go," Glenn murmurs, glancing at the kitchen again.

I hold his arm for one long second, looking into his eyes. "Thank you, seriously, thank you."

He smiles just slightly, not answering. But he doesn't have to, because he's such a nice person, and in his eyes I see only honest joy that he was able to help put this night together for Ollie and me.

Then he's gone.

And I'm alone, waiting, hoping, trying to keep my nerves from taking over and forcing me to do a very Skylar-like thing-run away. So I fiddle with the blanket, flattening it, smoothing out wrinkles that aren't there. I move the candles around, only to put them back where they were. I bring my hand against the wine, letting the condensation wet my skin, pressing the coolness against the back of my neck. Unable to sit still, I stand, hanging my coat over an empty chair, lifting the hem of my dress to let some much-needed air onto my sweating legs.

And when there's nothing else to fidget with, I just hold my hands in front of my waist and watch the kitchen door. Butterflies zip across my stomach. Shivers pass over my skin, lingering, like there are pop rocks exploding in my blood, fizzling and bubbling all over. My hands clench. My throat goes dry. I count my breathing, holding for long seconds, inhaling deeply, trying to draw the burning heat from my chest where it sits like a heavy weight.

But I can't fight it.

I'm afraid.

Afraid Ollie will open the door, take one look, and turn around. Afraid he won't understand. Afraid he'll be too angry to listen to or care about what I have to say.

Yet beneath the fear, there's something else, a nervous excitement, a painful sort of pleasure that brings a blush to my skin. Because I've known him since I was a child. Loved him since I was a girl. Slept with him as a woman. But this is still our first date, our first real date, and there's something terrifyingly wonderful about that.

Maybe for tonight he's not Oliver (Freaking!) McDonough.

Maybe for tonight, we're not Bridge's brother and Bridge's best friend.

Maybe for tonight, we're just a boy and girl trying to figure out if this magnetic pull between us is truly that crazy thing called love.

And just as I think it, the door opens.

Ollie steps out. His black pants meld with the shadows, but the bright white chef's jacket is a beacon to my gaze, pulling me in. The fabric is stained and sweaty, sticking to him, and I can tell he's tired because he reaches one arm up to rub his brow while the other runs through his ebony hair, disheveling it in the best way possible.

I shift my weight, waiting for him to notice.

All at once, he stops. His eyes widen, sweeping around the room, settling first on the candles, then the wine, then the desserts, slowly lingering at my toes before gradually climbing up, up, up, to meet my anxious gaze.

There.

That's all I needed.

Because when those eyes land on mine, everything in the world feels right. There's a light behind them, making them glow, making them bright and delighted and shocked and above all else, full of love. Suddenly, there's nothing tired or exhausted about him, as though seeing me has breathed new life into his weary muscles.

"Skye?" he asks, awed, blinking as though I might be a mirage.

I shrug because this is the one thing about the night I forgot to plan out. I mean, really, I'm a writer and I forgot the speech? But I'm too breathless for words anyway. "Hey. Um, surprise!"

He shakes his head, still processing. "What time is it?"

"Uh, three-ish, I think?"

"And you're here?"

"I'm here."

"And you set up a picnic in the middle of my restaurant?"

"I set up a picnic in the middle of your restaurant."

He glances around, taking it all in again, not sure what to think. And I'm worried the initial surprise is giving way to annoyance or frustration or- Ollie grins.

Full. Wide. Bringing both dimples out on his cheeks.

And all my fears melt away.

"This is amazing," he says, half laughing as he walks forward, pulling his chef's jacket off and revealing hard abs before the black T-shirt he was wearing underneath slides back down. "How did you do this?"

I bite my lip, trying to remain coy slash trying not to rat Glenn out. "I have my ways."

And then he stops, eyes narrowing. "Wait a minute, is this why I've been doing dishes for the past forty-five minutes?"

"No..."

"Were the guys in on it? Is that why they all left?"

"Course not..."

"Skye."

"Ollie."

"Skye."

And then he's right in front of me, sliding his warm fingers beneath my chin, lifting my face so it's an inch from his, and I have no escape from his eyes, those mesmerizing, make-a-girl-spill-her-beans, ridiculously sexy turquoise eyes.

I swallow, trying my best to stay strong. "A journalist never reveals her sources."

"What if I wanted to thank said sources?"

I grin. "Really?"

His hands dig into my hair, commanding and possessive, hands that know exactly what they're doing.

"Really," he breathes the word.

I shouldn't be stunned by the way his touch lights me on fire, but still, it takes me by surprise when he kisses me, sending a wave of heat through my core. I thought maybe I'd gotten used to the feel of his skin on mine after so many nights sleeping wrapped up in each other's arms. But suddenly, I'm that love-struck teenager whose entire body stops from shock when her finger accidentally brushes against her crush's in the hallway. As though nothing works anymore because everything is on hyper drive.

His hands travel down my back, and I'm silently thanking Blythe for forcing me to wear this dress because through the lace, our skin touches, and it sparks, flaring. Following the trail of the fabric, his thumbs linger, grazing over my front, stealing my breath. I'm lost in him. Just like I always am, unable to see up from down or left from right. My only thought is more.

Until all at once I remember this isn't what I came for.

This isn't love. This is lust. And I already know we have that in spades.

"Ollie," I gasp, stepping out of his arms.

But he blinks, dazed, seeming just as lost in me as I was in him. "What?"

"Nothing, it's just," I pause, taking a moment to breathe, to regain control. "I came here for a date, our first date."

He looks at me in confusion. And I know him well enough to read the uncomprehending expression gathering on his face, saying, Right. Isn't that what we're doing?

Such a guy.

"Well, we already know we're good at that stuff. Don't we?"

His lopsided, self-satisfied grin is back. "I like to think so."

As if to prove his point, he reaches out, placing his finger against my exposed arm, brushing my skin gently, tracing a line from my elbow to my shoulder. I shiver at the unspoken lure of that touch. And then I step back, flushed from the nearness of him, needing space.

"I want the other stuff," I murmur, glancing away.

"What other stuff?"

"I don't know," I sigh, holding out my arms, searching for the words. I've never been so honest with a guy before, so vulnerable, so demanding. But this is Ollie. And I've known him my entire life. And being myself, my true self, is the most natural thing in the world around him. "The conversation, the romance...the stuff!"

He frowns. And then his eyes widen a smidge.

Without warning, he turns around and walks away, disappearing into the shadows of the empty restaurant. For a moment, my heart stops, thinking he's leaving, that he doesn't want those things, that he doesn't understand. But then I see him wandering at the edge of the candlelight, glancing around, letting his eyes pass over me as though searching for something. There's a rose in his hand that must be from one of the tables, but I don't mind. It still makes me smile.

He steps closer, gaze vacant, overlooking me once, twice, as his head swivels. And then he finally meets my curious eyes, his own widening playfully.

"Skylar?" he asks.

"Ollie, what are you doing?"

"Skylar Quinn?" he repeats.

I lift a brow. "Really? You're so cheesy."

But he ignores me, grinning. And despite my better instincts, I feel myself yearning to give into the game, no matter how ridiculous.

"Are you Skylar Quinn? I was supposed to meet this girl here, my coworkers practically tortured me until I agreed to go out on a date with her, but I heard she was hot, so..."

"Oh, are you Oliver McDonough?" I ask, stepping closer. "I was supposed to meet him here, the only description I got from my best friend was six-two, football build, handsome with a generally cocky air about him? You know the type-conceited, full of himself, and totally..." I trail off, noticing the challenge in his gaze. I smile. "Charming."

"That's definitely me," he says, nodding seriously. "I'm not so sure about you though. I heard hot, but you're..." He lets the thought linger, teasing me just like I teased him. "Gorgeous, elegant, incredibly beautiful."

I die.

I mean, not really, but for a moment, everything within me stops, overcome. "Ollie."

"Skye," he murmurs back, but his tone is light, sprinkled with unspoken joy.

"Do we need to-"

"Not tonight," he interrupts, because he knows me well enough to know exactly what I was going to say.

Do we need to talk about John?

Do I need to explain?

Do you forgive me?

"Why?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Because it can wait. And because," he pauses, swallowing, thinking, as if he himself doesn't really know why. And then his features soften. "Because you're right. Because I want the stuff, too. Because I know everything about you-your favorite color, your favorite food, the movie you watch when you want to laugh, the one that always makes you cry. I know what every one of your smiles means. I know how your eyes shine silver when you're incredibly happy, and I know the storm clouds that gather when you're sad. I know all of that, I know Skye, my little sister's best friend, my friend. But I don't know Skylar, the girl who went to college and came home grown up, the woman you are now. There are times when the person I know disappears, and I can't tell what you're thinking. And I want to. I want those four years we went not speaking to disappear. I want to know what happened, how you changed, who you've become. I want to know you." He reaches up, twisting a lock of my hair between his fingers, and then lifts his blazing blue eyes, finding my gaze, not letting go. "All of you."

Okay, full disclosure, half of me wants to jump his bones right here, get back on the lust train, and forget all my talk about "the stuff." Because, hey, the other stuff is pretty, well, incredible.

And the other half is just trying not to cry, because his words touch me in a way only he can-they pierce the wall and grab hold of my soul, making me feel safe and whole and wanted.

And he must read my indecision the way he reads everything else, because he chooses for me, taking a seat on the tablecloth laid out like a blanket, and patting the spot beside him. I sit, leaning against his chest, sighing when his arm wraps around me.

"So, Skylar, tell me something about you that I don't know."

"I don't know, Oliver," I say, playing along, emphasizing his name. "Do you know I always dreamed of owning my own book store one day?"

His eyes widen. "Really?"

And the tone is full of genuine curiosity. I nod eagerly. "Yeah, I mean, I love writing, but books are my real passion. I always thought I'd work for a newspaper or something, writing for the arts and literature section, while I'm young. But when I'm older and I have kids and family, I thought I'd do something more like my mom. Open my own local store, start my own business, have reading events for children, invite authors to come for signings, help real people with recommendations." I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. "I mean, I know it'll be a lot of work, but, I don't know, I think it would be pretty awesome too."

"I think it's amazing," he says, holding me a little tighter. "I can't believe I never knew that!"

I glance over my shoulder, seeing the genuine surprise in his eyes, the enthusiasm, and think, I want that. "Come on," I jump in, "your turn."

"Hmm," he murmurs, trying to come up with something as he reaches for the wine and pours two glasses. While I wait, I pop one of the chocolates into my mouth, loving how the taste of Ollie still lingers on my lips, mixing with the sugar. "I've always dreamed of living in Italy for a year to study the food, visiting France and Spain, really getting a feel for the local flavors and the things I just can't learn if I stay in the States."

A perfectly pure sense of intrigue and joy bubbles beneath my skin, and I turn, looking back at him again, only to see he's staring into his wine, strangely uncertain. I wonder if he's anxious? If he could possibly be afraid of how I'll respond? But he's Oliver McDonough, so confident, so bold.

Except tonight he's not the untouchable Ollie. Tonight, he's just a boy on a first date with a girl. And I wonder for the first time if maybe he's just as nervous, just as vulnerable as I am.

So I spin, curling my knees into my chest, forgetting about my elegant dress as I face my whole body toward him, intrigued. Ollie looks up, a glimmer of hope alive in his eyes.

"I've always secretly wanted to go on a grand adventure," I whisper cautiously. "But I've always been too afraid to take the leap on my own."

His cheeks grow fuller, and his lips twitch, the very beginning of a smile. "I've heard Italy is a very adventurous place to travel..."